


Care and Feeding

by Nny



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 11:45:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In the manner of elderly widowed landladies in period novels, John Watson Does for Sherlock Holmes.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Care and Feeding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lamardeuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/gifts).



> Written for Lamardeuse's birthday. You can download the podfic [here](http://www.mediafire.com/?y2cc2gbjcwfz62z). :D

In the manner of elderly widowed landladies in period novels, John Watson Does for Sherlock Holmes. Whatever it is that ought to be Done he generally Does; those things he Doesn't Do Don't get Done. They rub along reasonably well by virtue of this arrangement - Watson occasionally expresses some dissatisfaction with the division of labour, but since the levels of cleanliness he upholds are far higher than Sherlock would ask for it really seems unfair to expect him to stir himself to move - for instance - a mug that he is quite happy to leave in place until the mould outgrows its confines.

Besides, it's not as though it doesn't go both ways; where John must put up with mildewed plates balanced precariously on the boiler and the constant reappearance of the stuffed badger that Sherlock always manages to rescue from the rubbish without once apparently moving, so Sherlock must bear papers placed with military precision square with the edge of the table and aggressively paired socks.

Somehow they have become used to each other, nevertheless, and Sherlock has become resigned to finding his cushion plumped and placed centrally on the sofa instead of folded and half-stuffed down the side of the seat, precisely where it might most comfortably support his head.

So it is that when he comes in from a day of annoying Lestrade and other such pleasures, hooking his umbrella over the door handle of the bathroom and tossing his coat vaguely in the direction of the bookcase, he regards the still-folded and squashed Union Jack with some suspicion.

"Watson?"

There is no response, which is of some concern; Watson rarely stirs without good reason, and neither his laptop's diary nor his online blog (the passwords had been child's play to unravel) had noted any such. He goes to the base of the stairs and calls again, answered this time by a pitiful groan.

Bounding up the stairs he considers the possibilities of what might have happened, mentally catalogues the contents of the mirrored medicine cabinet on the wall of the bathroom, tries to work out if he knows any doctors that aren't Doctor John Watson, who has apparently usurped the definite article from Matt Smith. Expecting scenes of great injury or dismemberment, or at the very least a little blood, it is almost with disappointment that he observes only Watson, wrapped snugly in a duvet and what looks like the better part of his wardrobe, crowned with a bedhead cockscomb of unparalleled magnificence.

"Your hair is extraordinary," he says, quite without meaning to; Watson makes a vague motion with one arm before shivering and pulling it back into his bedlinen cocoon. "Are you unwell?"

"What clue led you to that conclusion?" Watson asks, muffled and croaking, then, "actually please don't tell me, I can't deal with the science of deduction today." The last word fragments around an avalanche of coughing, and Sherlock takes a step closer; he supposes there ought to be something he can do, like rubbing John's back or attempting to fish him out from under the polo shirt that has flopped forward over his head, but he is genuinely wary of inadvertently making him worse.

"Can I get you anything?" he settles on, fingers tangling uselessly together.

John is flushed and panting, still undone by his fit of coughing when he emerges from under his sartorial shelter; it takes him a moment to answer.

"Tea, please."

The surprise on his face puts something vaguely uncomfortable in the pit of Sherlock's stomach, so he pats the top of John's over-warm and faintly sweaty head awkwardly and descends the stairs again, reasoning that gentle exercise must be the best possible solution to cramps.

Tea. Tea is perfectly manageable, possibly too much so, and he'd feel more pandered to if he weren't staring vaguely into the cupboard and wondering where on earth the tea caddy might have got to. Obviously it doesn't move by magic, and the fact that he always finds it in the cupboard when he looks must be down to John realising that it is out of place in the bath tub, or on the windowsill, or supporting one corner of a haphazardly constructed Newtonian device, and relocating it. The fact that John hasn't done so today is an obstacle but not an insurmountable one; he only needs to deduce from the activities of the morning where it might currently be.

He switches on the kettle while he's mentally reconstructing, tuning out the crackling hiss of it as his mind works. He'd been turning the curious case currently on Lestrade's plate over in his mind; tea had been consumed somewhere between Dreisbach's Handbook of Poisons and a bacon sandwich, which probably put him in the vicinity of the bookshelf.

However, a scan of the aforementioned item turns up nothing of the sort; nor is it to be found by the telephone or in the umbrella stand. He is in the bathroom eyeing the cistern thoughtfully when there is a strange sort of shuffling thump from the living room, and upon emerging he is confronted with the sight of Watson - still cocooned, with one corner of the duvet standing up behind his head like a bizarre Elizabethan collar - attempting to keep the eiderdown in place with a hand that is clutching the tea caddy.

"Halfway up the stairs," he says with a tiny smile.

"Thank you," Sherlock says with great dignity and takes it from him, pressing him inexorably down into the chair.

"It also helps," John says solemnly once he is settled, "if you put water in the kettle before switching it on."

"Shut up," Sherlock tells him shortly, and ignores the wheezing laughter from the living room as he puts the kettle to rights.

Once he remembers that he'd left the milk in the window box, since it was colder than the fridge (which had been needed for a blood related experiment anyway), the rest of the tea-making process is relatively uncomplicated. He does, however, make a mental note to buy teaspoons, since John is less willing to risk getting smacked in the face by a saturated teabag while draining his cup, and pincering it out with the fingertips is just about as uncomfortable as you'd think.

It feels like an achievement when he finally hands over John's mug, sees the look of genuine satisfaction as he blows across the top and takes a careful sip.

"Perfect," he declares it.

Sherlock smiles, not least because the gentle exertion of tea-making has apparently put paid to the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, replacing it with a not unpleasant sensation of warm satisfaction instead.


End file.
